Lögberg-Heimskringla - 19.09.1963, Qupperneq 6

6
LÖGBERG-HEIMSKRINGLA, FIMMTUDAGINN 19. SEPTEMBER 1963
HJÖRTUR HALLDÓRSSON (1908- )
His Own Masfer
Translaled by Axel Eyberg and John Walkins
It is easier said than done to become, all of a sudden,
your own master at seventy, when you’ve been hounded night
and day for well nigh fifty years. It can be quite a problem
for a man to become master in his own home and chief in
command on land and sea—chief in command, that is to say,
over the cat and the cow and the six scrawny ewes that
forage for themselves along the shore from earlý spring till
Christmas—and over himself, which is the most difficult
of all.
No, old Petur of Efstahus
had no feeling of uplift in his
heart at becoming his own
master but only disillusion-
ment and doubt. There was
emptiness around him and
within him and everywhere
else. It was as if life had lost
all meaning and value. Indeed
it was a long time since it had
had any significance for him
beyond carrying out to the
uttermost the desires and
aims of Joka his wife. This
had gradually become as nat-
ural and obvious to him as
letting the cat out at night or
crossing himself before he put
on a clean shirt. Peter was
exceptionally docile and en-
tirely without the spirit of re-
volt.
But Joka had held the reins
of authority with an ability
and energy no less remarkable
than Petur’s gift of submis-
siveness.
When she appeared in the
doorway of Efstahus and turn-
ed towards the ewes down on
the shore — “Na na na,”
she screamed in a sharp,
rasping voice — the ewes
came at once, ambling along
and bleating, all six of them,
for their portion of s a 11
herring and p i c k 1 e d fish
bones. Or in the evening when
she addressed the cow up on
the hillside in a plaintive yowl
—“Co-boss, co-boss, c o m e
Brindle”—the answer did not
fail. “Moo-ooh,” said Brindle,
gently and responsively, and
sauntered off home, for she
was a good-natured and ac-
eommodating cow and relish-
ed Joka’s abuse as little as
Petur himself. And if it hap-
pened, that Joka flung out
taunts at her, she would hang
her hornless head and her big
black eyes would fill with
humble contribution and re-
signation.
When it came to Petur, how-
ever, no musical charms were
applied. Then Joka’s voice
was most like that used by an
army officer in maneuvers
and attack, and aimed directly
at Petur’s talent for obedience.
And if she thought he was
loitering too long down in the
village or anywhere else out
of call, she simply hung out
her old red petticoat on the
windlass at the well, and
everybody knew what that
meant.
It often happened t h a t
Petur got odd jobs in the vil-
lage, in the warehouses, or on
the boats, but in this too Joka
had to be consulted. Accord-
ing to her humor and disposi-
tion, she took a rather hostile
attitude towards her neigh-
bors as a whole, and was al-
ways openly at war with some
of the “village pack,” as she
expressed it. There could be
no question then of allowing
Petur to work for the “rabble”
with whom Joka was pleased
to be quarrelling at the time.
Petur never dared therefore
to take on anything himself
without first asking Joka’s
permission and getting her as-
surance that the parties con-
cerned were among the neut-
ral states. As a result, people
usually tumed directly to
Joka if they needed Petur,
and that suited her best.
Petur’s happiest moments
were when he managed to slip
away to visit his old friend
Jonki Jakk in the bait shanty
and help to mend nets and
lines and bait the hooks. Then
he could tell the younger men
about the old days When they
used to lie out at the Skerries
in an open eight-oared boat
and haul in sharks with iron
hooks an inch thick baited
with putrid horse meat and
whale guts. That was a tough
game and it took brave men.
Cowards and weaklings had
no place in those fishing
grounds. And boys, what a
stink! Those who were not
old hands at the game used to
hold their noses sometimes.
Yes, sir!
These tales were balsam to
the heart. The manliness and
energy of his youth stirred
anew in the breast of the van-
quished. Even his rheumatism
let up for a moment and
Petur’s back straightened. But
what good was that when the
urchins frolicking outside be-
gan to shout and cry: “Joka’s
flagging! Joka’s flagging!”
And they kept on shouting it
with idiotic rhyme: “Joka-
poka’s flagging-gagging, flag-
ging-gagging Joka-poka!”
This meant that now the old
faded red rag of a petticoat
was waving at full staff on the
windlass of the well at Efsta-
hus, like a distress signal from
shipwrecked sailors. It was
not in the least affable, nor
was it a signal of distress. It
was an iron-clad order and
Petur slumped again. The
salty memories of manhood
and independence retreated
now before the ferocious at-
tacks of rheumatism, as he
straightened up from the
trough and grabbed hold of
his hips: “Well, well, boys! In
those days a fellow was young
and single and didn’t give a
darn!” Then he limped off up
the path, home to his wife.
Long ago it had sometimes
occurred to Petur that it
would certainly be m o r e
agreeable if Joka had been
content to flag with some-
thing else besides this pitiful
emblem of authority at Efsta-
hus, but he had never given
any sign of this either to his
good Joka or others, for Petur
was endowed with that true
nobility of heart which never
complains in spite of every-
thing. So he had got used to
that as to so many other
things, and had long since
learned to accept Joka like any
other manifestation of fate or
divine providence, to which it
was best to submit without in-
terfering in any way. This at-
titude released the conscient-
ious and guileless man from
all responsibility and unbur-
dened him of all worries and
problems of existence on
which he could have no influ-
ence. It brought him instead
that ease and tranquility of
mind which suited him better
and better as years and rheu-
matism overtook him and up-
rooted from his heart those
gnarled and stunted thorns
which had at one time been
the faint portents of vanity
and arrogance.
But now Joka was dead.
Suddenly and unexpectedly
She had popped off, and it
really seemed as if this whim
of Providence had been as
much of a surprise to her as
to Petur himself. She had not
left behind her any political
testament, as is usual with
dictators, and among her ef-
fects t'here was not a single
document that could serve
Petur as a guide to indepen-
dence in word or deed. He
knew not where to tum. Nor
had he ever had the slightest
idea that Joka would even
consider dying first.
But Petur had friends. Jon-
ki Jakk and his wife helped
him through the first difficul-
ties. It was necessary to see
about a minister and pall bear-
ers, bake for the funeral, and
milk the cow every day. Fin-
ally Joka was buried, and now
there was nothing to do but
settle down on a permanent
basis, in consultation with
Jonki. Petur was on his way
down to Jonki’s to discuss the
matter.
(To be continued)
Margur ágirnist meira en
þarf.
* * *
Mín er æran, yðar lítillætið.
* * *
Margt er sér til gamans
gert.
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